The Godhead
by fieldandfountain
Summary: When guitar legend Skwisgaar Skwigelf meets an early death, he takes his rightful place among the gods. But can he leave Dethklok behind in the hands of the evil (but very metal) Dr. Margareta Gurgliata? There may be some pairings, but I haven't decided yet! Input on what should happen appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

The crowd had gone insane as usual, and mutilated bodies littered the Siberian tundra. Novosibirsk was on fire- literally- and the screams of melting bodies accompanied Skwisgaar's final shred. His body trembled with a desire akin to lust- the desire to creep his fingers up and down the neck of his guitar in one final solo. But the show had ended. His lazy bandmates had thrown down their instruments and were headed for the store of tacos and tequila imported directly from Mexico. He joined them, slipped off his clothes, and hopped into the hot tub, keeping his hands firmly on his guitar.

"Feck, Charles," whined Pickes, swigging his Corona. " Ya forgot da dang limes agin!"

"Ja," said Toki ,"It ams not sames wit nos limes!"

"You do realize they make vodka here, Pickles?" asked Charles. "You know, your favorite drink?"

"Dude, feck dat. It's Tuesday."

"Taco and Tequila Tuesday," growled Nathan.

"Well I'm sorry to tell you boys, that due to the fungal growth you launched at your last concert-"

"Fungal growth is brutal," said Nathan.

"Totallys brutals," agreed Skwisgaar, his fingers roaming up and down the guitar.

"Wheresh my goddamn lime?" Murderface tilted the bottle up, and screamed when the beer poured into his eye.

"It's uh, like you uh, pissed your face" said Nathan, snorting.

"You should calls your sides bands Project Pisses my Faces," said Skwisgaar, barely containing his amusement.

"Well, Murderface," continued Charles. "There will be no more limes, because you boys eliminated all citrus fruits. Everywhere."

"So no lemons to sucks?' asked Toki.

"No, Toki."

Toki's face crumbled.

"No biggie," said Pickles. He had already finished three quarters of a bottle of Patron. He turned to the nearest Klokateer. "Now you, you take this tequiler-" he slurred, " Take it and make it into a tequila sunrise- with three cherries dis time."

"My Lord," said the Klokateer. "I'm afraid there is no orange juice in the building."

"Well feck, ya douchebag! Go git some den!"

"Pickles," said Charles. "Orange juice comes from oranges. There are no oranges left in the world. Because of you. All of you."

"Dat's so fecked! Don't use orange den, use-"

"This tequilas ams oranges." Skwisgaar held up a bottle of golden brown tequila with an orange tint.

"Yeahh!" Pickles grabbed the bottle and thrust it into the Klokateer's hand. "Jes replace da orange wit dis orange tequila."

"Yes, my liege." The Klokateer bowed.

"Listen, guys," said Nathan. "We got our tacos, we got our tequila. It's Taco and Tequila Tuesday. We're fine. FINE."

"Ja, We don't need no dildos limeses," said Skwisgaar.

A brunette in a tight spandex top crawled over Nathan, her miniskirt floating over her waist in the hot tub. A tequila shot was nestled between her breasts, with salt in the cleavage. Nathan licked the salt from her skin, and she leaned over him, tossing the shot into his mouth. He gulped and stared fixedly at the wall for three seconds before throwing his hands up in the air.

"ARRRG!" he screamed. "It's NOT the SAME!" Nathan smashed the glass in his hand.

"Actually, ya know, it's a biiig improvement." Pickles held up the tequila-tequila and his blood-shot eyes rolled back in their sockets.

"Aw Nathans, did we makes a mistakes with the funguses?" asked Toki, pressing his hands to his cheeks.

"NO! We didn't make a MISTAKE!" said Nathan. "We just need to make limes exist again."

"Nathan," said Charles, "I don't think that's-"

"Just leave me alone!" Growled Nathan. "This is your fucking fault, letting us do what we want all the time!"

"You know there are plenty of flavors, replacements for -" Charles counted off on his fingers.

"IT'S NOT THE SAME," growled Nathan.

"Ish totally not," said Murderface.

"We need a real limes makers," said Toki dreamily "that knows the earths, and trees, and hows to makes the beautifuls plants grows."

Skwisgaar scowled. "Beautiful plants ams dildos. We needs limes to licks off the naked ladies."

"If I remember correctly Skwisgaar,"said Charles. "It was your idea to have a massive fungus on stage."

"Big deals. It was a totally cools fungus."

"What about that scientist, Dr. Derdilliat?" asked Pickles. "He made it, maybe he can get rid of it."

"Great idea, Pickle!" said Toki.

"Dr. Gurgliata is dead, Pickles. Traces of the fungus made their way into his bloodstream through his fingernails, causing each of his arteries to explode. You may remember, a number of your fans met the same end."

"Fucking fans," said Nathan.

"Regardless, I'll find you a scientist, and you'll see for yourself whether making limes is….well, possible."

"And we want it more brutal, like limes that like…that burn out your TONSILS!" Nathan glowered and curled his hands into menacing fists.

"I don't think that's the best idea, Nathan."

But Charles came through, and the next day the world's premier citrus expert, Dr. Margareta Gurgliata, joined the band in a lab newly installed by the Klokateers. She was the widow of the late Dr. Gogol Gurgliata. She was a menacing figure in her matronly heels, standing nearly as tall as Skwisgaar himself. She had squinty eyes, and sharp teeth and nails. She pointed one knotted finger towards the band as they walked in her lab.

"Do you think it wise to mess with nature?" she screeched.

"Yeah, it's like, the most brutal thing ever," said Nathan.

"Yes, brutal, brutal, you say. Perhaps you will learn."

"Listen lady," said Pickles, "We jes wanna get some fruit and get outta here."

"Of course," she said. "But first we must have…a Powerpoint presentation."

The band looked up in horror as a screen fell and she scrolled through, naming species after species.

"I think I will dies," cried Toki. "Of the boredoms."

Skwisgaar played rapidly on his guitar. "It will pass," he moaned. "It will pass, little Toki." His head fell back over the chair groaning as his fingers passed over the chords.

But their looks changed to awe as she showed, slide by slide, how her precious lime trees, her babies, had succumbed to the consuming fungus. She spun towards them, her lips curling. "And you, _Dethklok_, would have met a much worse fate, had you not done me a good turn, by disposing with my worst enemy." And she snarled as the screen turned to a photo of a pinched little man. "_My husband_."

"We hates our families too!" cried Toki.

"And so," she continued, "We will work together to create a new citrus with a higher acid content than ever before, one that could just about _burn out your tonsils_."

Nathan stared dumbfounded for a moment. "Uh," he said. "Uh." He was trying to remember something. "That's what I said!"

"We will start by making a vat of acid, something far more potent than citric acid, for the ultimate _tang_. But there's only one power that can make this acid tangy enough."

"Wait, I think I know this one," said Pickles.  
"The _power of metal_."

"Well, yeah," said Pickles. "But lady, how are we gonna make fruit from dat?"

"Just leave that to me, boys. Leave that to me."


	2. Skwisfail

And so it was arranged that Dr. Gurgliata would create a new acid compound, and the band would broadcast their next show into the acid bath to bring it to ultimate potency. The concert would take place in Oaxaca, Mexico as consolation to all the farmers there who had lost their livelihood through the extinction of limes. Dr. Gurgliata worked day and night in her lab, and the bandmates could hear her maniacal laughter in the Mordhouse.

"Dude," said Pickles, " Can't we move her out here? She's giving me the heeby-jeebies."

"I'm afraid that she refuses to do anything without hearing you practice," said Charles. "She says she needs the metal to work."

"I will gives her all the metals she needs," said Skwisgaar. "Or woods. My penis woods."

"Must you be so crasth?" Asked Murderface, tilting up his stubby nose. He was smoking a pipe in an effort to get the band to pay attention to him. But they ignored him as usual.

"What, I would gives her my penis, dat's all." Skwisgaar shrugged and continued to strum.

"Always listens to your penis," said Toki. He had not forgotten when his had spoken to him.

"Dude," said Nathan. "She's like- a gargoyle. That's low, even for you Skwisgaar."

Skwisgaar pouted. He was sick of these dildos telling him what to do. He was in a sexual sense like Toki- he could see the good in everyone. What was more, he liked to be worshipped. It was his due after all.

He thought back to that evening when he had knelt in the snow, his beloved guitar nestled in his hands, playing his heart out and wailing to the heavens. With such nimble hands, with such an imposing presence, He _was _a god, he _must _be a god. Now the memory had faded and he was less sure. He had always felt such repugnance toward his mother when he was really just like her- even perhaps less discriminating. Being a god would give his promiscuity a divine purpose, so that he could rise higher than her.

And he thought to himself, fuck the band, he would fuck that harpy if he so willed it. In a way, it was more metal, fucking that which inspired fear in all of all of them. But older women had to be approached more carefully than young groupies. They were suspicious, all of them, and saw his approaches as a mean-spirited prank, and some even thought they were beyond sex. So it required a certain level of skill to get those MILFS into bed. But skill he had in abundance. Fifteen minutes, and Dr. Gurgliati would be putty in his hands.

Meanwhile the Doctor was going frantically over the PowerPoint slides again, her grief and rage increasing with each image. These were her prime specimens, bred to perfection to bear the most succulent and lovely fruits. And now they were dead, ruined for a freak show, and she knew they could never be brought back again. But some genetic material was stored safely away, and if she could no longer seduce the world with the fragrance of her fruits, she would create though freak enzymes a mutant, an organism so potent it would be near sentient. She needed those boys and their metal to stir to acid to its ultimate power, and then- revenge!

Not that she wasn't grateful to them for ridding her of that meddling little man and his dangerous fungi- he had seemed to her a contagion in himself, with his pawing hands, always on her even after she had scratched his face. He bore those marks on his right cheek to that fatal day when that repulsive fungus had consumed him.

There was a knock on the door and Margareta instinctively uncurled her features, so her eyes were characteristically blank. She turned off the PowerPoint presentation and faced Skwisgaar dead on.

He shifted awkwardly, trying to find a suitable surface to lean on. He chose a white lab table that was a little too short for him so he had to bend at the hip to gaze up her at her. He coughed a little and altered to face to his finest seductive expression, half smile and half sneer. She stared at him and her blank expression shifted to contempt.

This wasn't going well.

Skwisgaar coughed again. "Well Misses Doctors Gugliatis, would you like to make the fucks?"

In a habitual reaction she lifted up her nails, and then lowered them again. "I don't know what you could possibly mean."

Was she really so dense? Skwisgaar strutted towards her and placed a hand on her stiff shoulder. He raised an eyebrow and smiled. Then he rounded the fingers of one hand into an 'O' shape, and pushed his pointer through it several times. "You knows exactlys what I means."

Her lips curled into a snarl. "I have enough to occupy me without your perversions, Mr. Squiggle."

"Pffft!" said Skwisgaar. "I was trying to be kind gentlemans and give you the fucks-"

"I am working to reverse the abominations that you caused! The complete eradification of a species-"

"Oh I sees!" said Skwisgaar, rolling his eyes. "Just because I decides it ams cools to makes a brutals fungus and gets my bands to agrees, Mrs. Doctors becomes Drs. Crybabies!"

"This!" She screamed, pointing her finger in her usual gesture of condemnation. "This was YOUR idea!"

Skwisgaar shrugged. "Ja, and goods ideas too."

"GET OUT!" She shrieked, her voice nearly breaking. Even in his confusion, Skwisgaar listened in awe. He noted that she would make a fine black metal vocalist if she ever put her mind to it. She loomed closer and he fell back over the chair, hitting his head.

She continued to scream and he had a blurred vision of this woman in white paint, black dripping from her eyes. A microphone was in one hand and the other one held a bloody heart. All around her a horde of demons shredded high melodic rifts.

When he came to she was still looming over her with her arms outstretched, and his pulse hastened. "Time to gets the fucks out of here!" And he ran out, slamming the door behind him and gasping for breath.

"So how did it goooo?" Asked Pickles. He was lying on a chaise lounge with two cucumbers on his eye. A klokateer was rubbing lotion on his feet

"Pfft. Usual. We had the sexes."

"Ughhhh." Nathan shuddered.

"Well could ya do me a favor and keep it down?" asked Pickles. "I'm trying to relax here." He wiggled his toes and the klokateer placed a toe separator between them to begin his manicure.

"Yeah," said Nathan. "We could hear the screaming from over here. It was-something."

"Ughh," said Skwisgaar, resting his head in his hands. He could still hear the shrill vibrato in his head. He never would have admitted that a voice so metal could give him a headache.


	3. The Unholy Vat

The sun fell over Oaxaca, Mexico. Numerous Dethcopters landed in the depths of the overgrowth, causing the palms to flail wildly. The massive vat that would contain the bubbling acid was finally built, and Margareta looked up at it in awe. She resisted the urge to clap with delight.

"Higher, higher," she called, as they lifted the stage into the sky.

She felt a shadow fall over her, and she shuddered.

Skwisgaar was more surprised than she was when she turned around. She was wearing a black v-neck t-shirt that dipped lower than he would have expected. But more, her face had been transformed by happiness. Her black eyes were larger and rounder and several lose pieces of hair had fallen over her face, softening her brow and expression. Her grin, though it could only be described as maniacal, illuminated her face. But seeing Skwisgaar, her eyes flashed and she reverted back to her signature grimace.

He nodded at her. "I thinks we gets off on the wrong legs," he said. Skwisgaar wasn't used to rejection, and to restore his pride, he was embarking on a campaign to win her over.

"Here you goes." It was a signature Dethklok Severedheart™ basket, the kind sold in cheap supermarkets worldwide around Valentine's day. It was wrapped in silver and red cellophane. It contained Bloodtrocuted™ cherry chocolates, a replica Deddybear™ endorsed by Toki, and a bunch of dead flowers.

The vein of hatred ran so deep that Margareta was on the verge of puking. She tried to control the trembling in her face, and in doing so pursed her lips into a stiff smile. For her plan to work, she would have to forget her consuming hatred, however briefly.

She stiffened her body to avoid trembling and she lifted the gift basket like a dirty rag between her thumb and forefinger. Skwisgaar smiled uncomfortably, showing his teeth in an uncharacteristic fashion and she smiled back in much the same way. In an effort not to squint, she opened her eyes wide.

"It ams as beautifuls as yous," he said, trying to arch a brow.

"Yes, yes," she said, peering through the cellophane at the rotting flowers. "It ams- I mean, is, very nice. Now on with you."

He ran off to the dethkopter, and she dropped the basket to the ground, nudging it slightly with her foot. She noted, with no particular emotion, that it was the only gift she had ever received.

The concert got off to a brilliant start. Cheering fans, both local Oaxacans and international followers, freaked out from the first note. The vat was transparent, and the green liquid began to bubble and then boil with the band overhead. The fierce velocity of the music set the mixture in motion so it set off a cloud of greenish smoke that enveloped the band in a sinister mist. It could be _good_ for them exactly, but it wasn't deadly. The energy of the audience seemed to follow the rising liquid, reaching a fever pitch so that they toppled over one another.

Dethklok was playing their best. Nathan and the two guitarists flung their heads so that their long hair circled around them. The lyrics were barely decipherable, but they had something to do with the destruction of an entire species.

Skwisgaar always got high off of his own playing. It was a pleasurable, comfortable experience to toy with his guitar in bed, in the hot tub, while receiving a blowjob, but to play in concert was an entirely different experience. It was then he was most highly sensible of the unnatural speed of his fingers, of the phallic symbolism of the guitar that he played in never ending arpeggios, and most of all his godhood. Nathan was saying the words, but he was producing the hearts blood of the metal. He felt himself rising above the ground, the sweat gathering at his neck.

It made it that much harder when the stage gave way, and he found himself falling into the sizzling green vat.

It took Dethklok several minutes to realize that their guitarists had disappeared, but the fans realized almost instantly. There was silence, and an alarming lack of violence. The rioting would happen soon, but it was delayed by the shock. Most of them had seen Skwisgaar fall, on his own, from the elevated stage. They had seen him sink, guitar and all into the sizzling green liquid, and watched in horror and awe as his body dissolved. The stage had clearly been rigged; Skwisgaar's part had simply given way. Their was a conspiracy afoot, and the audience emitted a low growl that didn't bode well.


End file.
